


excerpts

by sadsquatch



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 15:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsquatch/pseuds/sadsquatch
Summary: just some things i never made anything out of.





	1. Chapter 1

_It was a good day._

My left foot rests on my right foot, the worn out canvas accepting a dusty print of the bottom of my shoe, the hemline of denim edging its way up my calf as my knees were held against my chest. Anxiously bitten fingernails came to my attention, as I await the train I've already lost the patience for.

In another sense, it was a good day. My head feels clear, for the first time in a while, which is always the most common sign. There were good days, and there were bad days, and the common denominator of the two is the constant feeling of them being numbered. On the bad days my eyes feel like they're shrinking into my skull, beneath that my head turns into the scene of a crime as sirens echo through it and pain wraps itself around me in a hug I can't help but consider a familiar affection, and my body just refuses to leave the minescule bubble of comfort in which I wallow. The good days are just the days in which that doesn't happen, the days in which my brain allows my thoughts to be heard rather than drowned out by sounds and sights and smells and sensations I can't switch off. It was a good day because the sun wasn't blinding me to the point of blacking out, the sound of the train has only given me a mild headache I could probably relieve with cheap coffee, the train people are being quieter too.

My eyes barely capture the glowing scenery as it passes through the screen of an almost empty train's window, and it was a good day and I was sticking by it. The sharp crackling sound of the dude reading my stop pulls me out of my thoughts, the usual amount of people raise from their seats as I did my own, except it feels different, their faces seem off and things seem a little more monochrome than they just had been. My head began to thumb through the walls of my skull, I tighten my grip around the train ticket in my hand, averting my attention to my feet.

My feet finally found their steady haven on the concrete ground, and my head stopped spinning so violently, it began all over again as soon as my feet reach the platform. January feels this way, January feels dizzy and distant and January is a comfort. Nobody particularly enjoys the month in the same way that nobody particularly enjoys mondays, at least for this month I don't feel so far away.


	2. second

The stars buried under blankets of heavy clouds, the city snuggled under a layer of darkness. The role of the menace to the thick coat of black paint that covered the city, forcing my eyes into a squint, belong to the low hum of the gaudy lemon streetlights. It's only ever on the rare occasion that the dimmed streets refuse to mirror the glow of the lights, when the raindrops are swallowed by the sky instead: a feature of summer evenings I stand undeniably fond of. Invisible cars whizzed by, the dry buzz of tires creating friction with dry concrete never is lost in the outskirts of a city, but in the matte black of the late hour it's near impossible to see anything outside the lights of the metropolis. It strikes me, every now and then, how I can focus so solemnly on the thick tires tracing tracks into the tarmac I couldn't even point to, but lack any awareness of sounds so close to me they could firm a grasp onto me.

I enjoy the evenings, the calmer hues set in and the louder sounds retired into the centre of the city, taking the people with them. My head can focus on things other than blazing lights and sharp sounds, my thoughts can range further from the sounds of bells ringing when somebody enters through the front door of the shops and the distinct scratch of skin against my own as the busy people live their busy lives.

In the delicate hours of early morning, People In The Streets ran close to extinction, busy lives lasted a solid 12 hours before their lives lacked any motion. It's easy to envy the way their eyelids fall so gently, the way their brain slowed and their thoughts took over. It's easier to envy the way their alarms strike them to consciousness at the same time every day, letting them know it's time to live their life. It's harder to envy the way they miss the lazy clouds allowing the moon's glow to surpass them as it shone through the grey blankets, the stars that freckled the sky.


	3. third

lights burnt through my skin and vibrations worked their way up my spine, as the clusters of people stumbled past, not one of them blinking an eye at me as i edged desperately through them. it was like there was fire in my skin, and yet shudders of cool air would hit me, causing goosebumps to rise and fall, and the air was seemingly avoiding contact with me. now people had began to notice me, staring at me with an expression i'd prefer to never see again, judging gases that failed to understand how all i wanted was for their eyes to turn away. the only light at the end of the tunnel, for me, was the corner i first found in this city, and even that had been taken from me by blankets of rain. it seemed the population of the city was inside the bar, yet my head wouldn't stop thumping to the sound of the overly-loud, bass-filled song i had only just escaped, not least until my hands found the tiniest of comforts in masking my ears and my knees found refuge tucked into my chest.

my breathing began to regulate once again, but soon fell out of track at the sound of footsteps jogging in my direction, and i didn't dare to look up. clenched together as hard as i could force them to be, my eyelids would not open to see the feet that had stopped running and found their destination. i wanted to scream, tears and all, for whoever it was to just leave me alone; if they were going to tell me to move, bother me, or even try to help me- if i had one wish, in this moment, it would have been for them to disappear.

my hands were being lifted, though they tried their damndest to stick to my ears, from my and the thumping had stopped. all that was, was the sound of breathing, faint music and speaking from inside, and rain hitting the streets. my eyelids unsealed themselves from their grip on each other, and the muscles in my legs lost their tension. i straightened out my spine, leaning back to rest my head on the harsh wall behind me, before glancing over at the mystery person who still hadn't left. a sense of embarrassment kicked in, only to be downplayed by a greater sense of vulnerability and insecurity, and anger, but anger was something i never lacked.

his hair stuck to his forehead as a result of the rain, and due to his heavy breathing, probably sweat too. his eyes scanned me, occasionally glancing up at the rest of the world, but always returning to me. a small question to see if I was okay, presumably so he knew if he could leave and not be seen as rude, left his lips. the only answer i offered was in the form of a nod, a sigh joining it. before i could process it, he wasn't staring down at me anymore, but rather on an almost-eye level with me, as he perched next to me.

"where are you going to go?" the question struck me as a surprise, it wasn't of his interest and i was certain he did not care. equally, however, the question sparked a concern in me; where would I go? Ciara was inside and I definitely wouldn't go in there again, her house keys were with her, and I had become reliant on her. I'd have loved to say that I'll stay out here, but the frosted raindrops hit my arms faster each time and I knew I wasn't strong enough to handle weakness in the form of illness.

I sighed. "I don't know." was really all I could say, and I wished the words never left my mouth once I realised what I'd said. it was an invitation for pity, I was practically holding a sign saying for him to feel sorry for me, I didn't want that. "You can leave now, you know."

"Right." was all he said, before he rose upwards and stood up fully, beginning to walk away. I felt terrible, and yet I knew it was the best thing to do. Pity was something I couldn't stand being felt for me, I had gotten past my past and accepted it, the idea of people believing I still let it affect me in the present moment made me feel sick. At one point, pity was all i wanted, i loathed the idea of dealing with my problems and preferred having people throw money at me and feel sorry for the poor little girl who couldn't get herself together. and yet, through all that, I felt as if I had disappointed him. Partly, I thought he wanted to pity me so he could reflect on his own situation and feel better about himself, I'd refuse the idea of him caring about me. But, still, I felt I had been too mean, too harsh. Too little, too late; I thought.

Or perhaps not, he turned back around (catching me watching him in the process) and walked towards me again. except this time he seemed angry, and I wasn't sure I could deal with having somebody else shout at me now too, I knew I disappointed people and I just wish they would stop pretending I'm worth a consideration, and then when realising I definitely wasn't being angry at me for it.

"Why won't you ever let anybody help you? Why do you push everybody away? And, mostly, why do you have to be such a bitch about it?" The words left his mouth like bullets, he would never be able to stop them from hitting me from that point onwards, I would never be able to unhear what he said. It was true, completely actually. I did refuse to let people help me, and I definitely managed being a bitch about it, there was no reason or argument of defence I had against him.

"I didn't mean that, I really didn't-" he muttered, stumbling on his words before I interrupted him. He did mean it, it was all true, he just didn't mean to cause harm with it, which he didn't, for the most part.

"No, it's fine. You're right, that's just how I am, and I don't think I'll ever change." The most honest thing I had ever admitted left my lips, and it felt so damn good not to have to defend myself. One of the greatest feelings I had grown to experience, was that of a time like this, when I can simply give up on trying. So much of my time is spent defending myself, silently or not, it felt fantastic to just bask in my flaws for that single moment.

"It's not working for you though, you could be so much happier, can't you just let people help?" It didn't cross his mind, just what he had said. Happiness isn't for me, happiness wasn't there for me when I was crying to myself as I packed my bag and left. Happiness wasn't there for my mother when she starved herself of everything she needed just to give it to me, when she was certainly more deserving of it than I was. Happiness is not my friend.

"I can't rely my happiness on other people, it's never worked out for me."

He looked almost defeated, like he couldn't think of a single possible defence to it, because he knew damn well that this was beyond him. He sat back down, next to me as I stared off into whatever was above the light pollution and clouds and that covered the sky. I had given him nothing to work with, he knew nothing about me other than my name and the facts he had come to realise about me. Perhaps, one day, he would know more about me, and I would know more about him and his infatuation with me.

"not everybody is out to get you."


	4. fourth

_"I heard you are seeing someone new"_

the earthy smell of the coffee, the warmth of it's steam heating my face, the slight tingling that ran through the palms of my hands as their grip on the mug tightened. my attention had been pulled from the, actually kind of crappy (but drinkable), coffee in front of me, and directed towards the familiar laugh I hadn't heard in the longest of times. It comforted me like a steamy hot shower on a rainy cold day, but of course the water can run cold, and there's no denying it did. your laugh, the one I could never grow tired of, was accompanied in harmony by a higher pitched one. it was a sound I could never forget, a sound so beautiful I only wished I could hear it without feeling my stomach sink, and all the butterflies that fluttered like crazy died. the glow in your eyes erupted a guilt like sickness in me, you were so incredibly happy.

_"I heard that she has seen your room, your bed. Where we used to be"_

my ears somehow managed to block out the sound of anything else in the room, but the two of you. you muttered how you'd like her to stay at yours again, how you thought the room looked brighter when she perched on the edge of the bed and waited for you to wake up. she muttered how she'd like that too. my stomach sank further down than before, and i was just incredibly thankful you hadn't seen me, the look on my face would hardly drag you away from her like i wished I had the strength to do. my place was next to you, in puddles of white sheets, watching you wake up. my place was brushing my hair, sat on the edge of your bed, whilst you (not-so-quietly) showered. my place was dancing around your bedroom, in your shirt and nothing else, to the sound of rain in the evenings. my place, our place.

_"Do you hold hands before you sleep? Do you look into her eyes? Do you tell her she's the only one, like you used to tell me? I can't get over the thought of being over the one that I adore. I can't get over the thought of you ever loving someone more"_

and in those evenings, when laughing had gotten the best of us both, we'd collapse onto the bed and find residence there for a few hours. our hands would connect us together, and it would feel as if we would never break apart. your eyes, sleepily swooping as mine mirrored, found my own finally and in those moments, i could never feel more complete. and you'd tell me how one day we'll get married, in a big white church with fields of green and flowers surrounding, how it would only be us and the few friends we had made because "i'm pretty damn certain neither of our parents would bother trying to accept it". and you'd tell me how we'll have little ones someday, a little girl and a little boy, and how they'll mirror us. you'd tell me that we were infinite, that there could be nobody else to fit my mould, that nobody else could ever fit into the crease in the pillow I made. I felt ill just considering you telling her the same stories, making the same promises, loving her the same, loving her even more.

_"Do you know her face like you knew mine? Do you like the way she feels? Do you hold her when she's feeling small, like I feel now?"_

in the moments of bliss the others called morning, the pads of your fingers would smooth my skin down. gently drawing lines with your fingers around my face, combing my hair out of your way. your eyes never lost track of your fingers, my eyes never lost track of your eyes. and in the deep moments of the night, when only the moon and the stars could see us, your hands would mask my body. your hands would trace down my silhouette, our skin would cling to each other desperately. perhaps, she experiences the same torturous bliss as I. perhaps her voice, softly muttering your name, makes you forget about me. and when my friends left me, when my mother warned me about you (and i swore she could never be right, and i was wrong), you would hold me nonetheless, and i'd forget everything. perhaps, she has endeavoured fighting her own battles, and perhaps you have been her bandages. though i doubt it, if she ever felt as low as I do in this moment, you'd be sure to lift her stomach back up from sinking, your finger would tilt her chin up to face you, you would resurrect the butterflies in her stomach.


	5. fifth

_"I find myself at your door,_

_Just like all those times before,_

_I'm not sure how I got there,_

_All roads—they lead me here."_

The ghost streets, empty windows and blank closed doors, passed through my vision but none of it was noticed. when my foot hits the breaks softly, and the car rolls to a stop, and i lead my head back on the seat, i begin to realise where the roads had led me to. The house that stood out, the house I was walking towards, lighting up in a familiar glow. The windows revealed your small frame, bony knees hugging your chest as it rose and fell, head tilted towards the ceiling.

I resisted approaching the door, which offered a difference between this situations and all of the others, that would otherwise have been reenactments. It seemed obligatory to keep walking towards the door, to lift up my shaking hand and knock, so have my head fall to stare at the ground as I hoped the door would open. It seemed obligatory to see the door slowly  slide open, to see you standing hidden behind it. It seemed I was nervous to perform my act for the show, which we'd practiced so many times before, where I fuck everything up and come back to you, where you tell me it's the final straw, where I know too damn well that there are thousands of more straws. Nonetheless, I continue my performance, my knuckles hitting the mahogany door,  hearing it echo around me. The sound of your feet padding across the tiled floors, the sound of the chain slowly unclicking itself from the door, there was no going back now. This time, however, felt different. There was a bitter lacing in the air, a tangible thickening wall between the two of us, this time was different.

_"You open your eyes into mine,_

_And everything feels better_ "

My eyes met yours, seeing your pale skin and the damp red area surrounding your eyes shot a bullet through me. Your lips trembled, your shaking hands finding a still home tucked into your upper arms as they crossed over your stomach. The rain, which hadn't even been brought to my attention until you mentioned it, fell like tiny flies onto my hair and clothes.

I didn't care, in that moment, to hear you say how I must be freezing, or how I shouldn't have come in a time like this, how the storm could have gotten the best of me, how I shouldn't have come at all. I didn't care to watch you stare me down, drop your pedestal doorway, to see your hands untuck themselves and rest on your hips as you awaited any reply I could lace together.

I cared about how your jaw tensed, how your eyebrows furrowed, how your eyes drooped and could barely stay wide open, though you were trying so hard to keep them open. I cared about how your bones still shook, whether it was from the cold that surrounded me, or the warmth I took from you when I left. I cared about how you looked like you hadn't eaten for weeks, how your hair was greasy and unwashed, how your skin had only grey and blue tones. I cared about how the interior of your place was incredibly clean, how you probably spent an entire night polishing the surfaces and rearranging the contents of your cupboards, because your mechanism of coping with this is distraction.

_You find yourself at my door,_

_Just like all those times before_

The crackling radio stuttered something about a storm, thunderous clouds heading closer towards us, downpours of rain relentlessly flooding the city. Beside that, everything was silent; just the sound of rain breaking into every surface it hits, and wind sparing nothing in its attempts to defy gravity. A glow emerged from the ghost towns streets, the sound of a car pulling up, metal doors slamming shut, and after the false silence returns. No doubts suggested it wouldn't be you, hands shaking and head daring only to face the ground as you walked towards the door. I watched as you stepped back, and then forward again, before reaching the door. The oceans of rain drowning you went completely unnoticed, as you lifted your hand to hit the cold, echoing door. I took my time in walking towards my side of the door, slowly unclicking the lock that separated me from you, and sliding open the door. Your head shot up, but you didn't say a word in regards to my pestering about the weather, you didn't say a word at all. Rather your eyes scanned the scene behind me, you recognised the shimmering surfaces and how the decorations were rearranged, how I coped.

_You wear your best apology,_

_But I was there to watch you leave,_

_All the times I let you in_

_Just for you to go again_

When your attention ranged beyond my trembling bones and evidently overcleaned home, you managed only to mutter sorry. in different ways, you found apologies to drown me in: "i never meant to hurt you", "it was a mistake", "i'm sorry". you wore your apologies like a fancy suit; perfectly rehearsed and ready to show off, but it meant little to nothing to me. the immunity i felt towards these repeated phrases, these cheap segues into having my trust again, proved nothing but power. I felt in charge, i felt like the manipulation and control you held over me with your mumbled-like-nothing apologies had been wiped away. because I knew the reality of things, i watched your face turn red with anger and I watched as you threw curses at me like it was nothing, carrying the weight of my whole world with you as you left. I watched you bite down on your lip during one last glance at me, as I sat crying with no words to offer you because lies don't come as easy to me as they do to you, before you left once again. I saw the darkness in your eyes as you slammed the door of your car, not even bothering to say goodbye before you drove off. The transparency of your apologies shone through this time.

_Right before your eyes,_   
  
_I'm aching, no past_   
  
_Nowhere to hide,_   
  
_Just you and me_

I pushed my way into her room regardless of her objections. I saw her, not fighting back with her usual rigour, but just stepping outside instead. Holding her cardigan in folded arms to her chest, freezing. She looked to the floor, hoping to find a way to get me to leave her alone this time. I stepped outside with her and, when she turned to go back in, pulled the door shut. "It's fucking freezing." she muttered, gazing behind me and at the floor, just anywhere but my face. I kept my eyes on hers, as much as she fought them off, until she gave in. Everyone else in the town inside, with heating and blankets and dry clothes, whilst we stood outside her door, being drowned in the downpour. But it's just us now, and she has to hear me out now, and I don't even know the words to say what I need to say.

_This is the last time you tell me I've got it wrong,  
_   
_This is the last time I say it's been you all along,  
_   
_This is the last time I let you in my door,  
_   
_This is the last time, I won't hurt you anymore._

The silence felt impossible to break. He had a million things on his mind and he couldn't find anything to say. She didn't know what was going through her mind when she coughed, and held eye contact with him, and just as his lips parted to mutter some bullshit apology, she says "Don't say it." and she tries so hard to hold his gaze. "Don't tell me how it's a misunderstanding, how you love me. Don't fucking say it."

He doesn't even know what to say. How do you tell someone you love them when you've pissed all over the meaning of the word? He just nods, because he can't even act like he has any ground to hold, because she's in control, and because he's done asking for a settlement when he knows he'll surrender if it means she'll stop looking at him that way. 

So she turns around, and she opens the door, and she steps inside. Just as she thinks she's going to close the door on him, leave him out there, she finds herself giving in. His eyes are tired and grey and hopeless and she sees his slumped shoulders, his neck hanging low. When she grabs his hand, pulling it closer and stepping back to make him walk inside, she's lost for words too. "No more chances. After this, we're done. I swear this time I mean it" She manages to whisper.

He steps closer to her, and he says "I won't need another chance". Her brows furrow, and he says "I swear this time I mean it."

 

 


	6. sixth

i tugged at the shirt's hem,

an example of just one way i tried to seem cute (of which there were many).

you smiled,

your head hung,

and told me "you look so tiny in my shirt,

  like a pug in a dressing gown."

and i smiled,

and i laughed,

biting my lip

  (another habit i had picked up in my desperate attempts to seem cute).

it seemed,

I had become what I wished for,

you saw me as cute,

  and now what?

these habits are not my own,

this character is fiction,

the skin,

  you see as so delicate it could be paper,

packages grenades.

   and the more you try to get under my skin,

the closer you will come to realise

in the same way that river tops seem so calm

when storms are brewing beneath them,

my soft hands inside your own were locking a handcuff around your wrist,

and the other handcuff around my own,

and when my "fragile" and "gentle" body cast itself over the sharp cliff,

   you would follow me


	7. seventh

The iron in our blood, the calcium in our bones, the magnesium in our muscles; they all came from the dust of an exploding star. Every inch of everything is born from a sprinkle of glitter, unfathomably far away. Under our skin lays inches of a galaxy, lining our veins rests the tiniest fractions of a universe. We are starbound, nothing less than the glowing lights that paint the sky.

The beauty of stars is only visible in the darkest hours, and perhaps the darkest hours we face will reveal the most beautiful of secrets glittering through our skin, illuminating every inch of us, destroying the shadows that engulfed us.

Perhaps our eyes will burn with light, our mouths will struggle to contain the bullets of gold that fires out of them, our bones will barely manage to hold the rivers of silver masking them, our shaking bones will be held up entirely on the strength at which we shine. 


	8. eighth

_there was a distinct way_  her body responded to anxiety. it was like watching a wildlife show, analysing her movements so carefully, except it was a lot more enjoyable and generally didn't play clips of animals mating.

she'd pierce her lips together, such in her cheeks sometimes. or she'd tap on whatever surface was closest to her, not loud enough to be audible, but still it was easily noticeable. she'd sometimes run the palms of her hands down the sides of her stomach, i guess just to feel her ribs and know that it was real and she was there, and maybe even that she could feel. other times she would sit so still, her eyes floating around trying to find a focus, and the movement  was her chest rising and falling.

i've tried to understand her, to be of aid in situations like those, because it's a pretty horrible feeling to see someone you care about look like they're about to cry. she explained it to me as the feeling you get when you're watching a scary movie and the music plays so quietly and you're waiting for the jumpscare, and in the worst cases she'd say it was like almost tripping and falling on the stairs, or swinging back on a chair and it almost tips over. I guess it's just the feeling of constantly feeling unsafe or unsteady, or at least that is what my brain could understand it as.

as for her reactions to it, she calls it "finding the ground again". she'll do things that remind her of reality, that she is present and awake in the moment, that the ground is still and the world isn't spinning.

I'm not sure if there is any way of helping her in those situations, it seems like my best move is to just wait for her to tell me what she needs, but she's never been great at that kind of thing and i've never been great at reading people's minds.


	9. ninth

from the womb to a damp corner under a bridge, she made it a home. when the war tore half of our house down, and we both slept in what was left of the cramped living room, she moved cushions from sofas to make mattresses and used rough curtains and old clothes as blankets. when times were getting harder and we lost our home, she cleaned the otherwise grime-filled motel room completely and lit cheap candles around the place, and it felt a little less unfamiliar with her there. a home can be defined as simply a place where one lives permanently, or (my preferred definition) as a place of comfort, and i always believed we were never lacking a home, only a house.


End file.
